


Too Much Stuff, Not Enough Space

by SyaB



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, And world building, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, M/M, Monsters, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parent Will Graham, Single Parent Will Graham, Slow Build, Slow Burn, but not too many to spoil the plot, but really its just character development, probably slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:02:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29307732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SyaB/pseuds/SyaB
Summary: Monsters are real. Will is a dad. And he needs help.A story in which two universes are colliding, and the results may just be catastrophic.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	1. Toes

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing and releasing a fanfic out into the world. I would love your feedback!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I use the 24 hour clock.

Will wakes up in a cold sweat, the afterimages of bone and blood dancing across his vision. He turns to the clock. 00:00. With a silent groan, he slowly lifts himself up against the wall behind him and drags his hands down his face. A movement to his left makes him pause. He stares at the corner of the room, waiting. The walls begin to bleed black, pooling onto the floor. Will looks down, watching the hardwood disappear under the gooey veneer. One crooked limb at a time, a tenebrous figure emerges from the inky liquid, rising until its head lies just below the ceiling. It’s all tar and shadow, supersonic ice and soot. It releases a gravelly sound from its middle. Will shivers. The thing slinks closer, reaching a hand toward his face. A set of teeth the shape of icicles materialize. It’s all over very quickly. 

Will startles awake, breath stuttering from his lungs. Though well acquainted with the demons lying in his dreams, Will still hesitates to recreate the events from them. He checks the time but avoids looking at the previously filled corner of his room. With a contained sigh, he peels the wet sheets from his body like a layer of membrane. He pads into the bathroom and turns on the shower, watching the spray fall and drift into the drain. He runs the list through his head, imagining himself completing all of his daily tasks. He sees himself take a shower and towel off, patiently tend to his teeth for two minutes, dress in a vaguely professional suit, and make breakfast. After accomplishing three of his objectives, he heads into the kitchen to tackle the fourth. Breakfast. Will opens the fridge and grabs the eggs and butter. He takes the bread from the counter and slides the squares of wheat into the toaster before turning to prepare the eggs. As Will is mid-scramble, a small figure emerges from a room in the hallway. It walks slowly, drawn in by the smells and sound of clattering dishes. Will notices its presence and turns around.

“Good morning Sweetheart.”

The little girl rubs her eyes and yawns her response. “G’Morning Daddy.”

Will slides the breakfast onto two plates and sits at the wooden table across from the four year old. The child’s small, with two plump cheeks and a round nose. Her skin is dark, smooth and chocolatey like her mother’s, and not unlike the mousse au chocolat Will ate as a child. Her hair is twice as dark as Will’s and four times as curly. She has charcoal for eyes and a penny’s width size gap between her teeth. Will smiles and shovels a forkful of eggs into his mouth. The girl narrows her eyes at him, clearly dissatisfied. The man coughs and places the fork down on his plate.

“Yes Amara, my mistake.”

The youngest of the pair beams and grabs her counterparts’ hands.

“Thank you God for this food, Amen.”

“Amen.” He echoes.

The girl looks up at him and giggles, clearly calling him silly in her head. The two finish eating in silence.

“Okay, Amara. Go get dressed while I finish your lunch. Then we can leave for school today.”

“Daddy you forgot.”

“I forgot? About what?”

“My hair.”

Will smiles as he internally screams. “Of course, we’ll do it after you get dressed.”

When the two converge in the living room, Amara sits on the floor in front of her father as Will settles above her on the couch. He fingers through hair ties, rubber bands, jam, cream, beads, clips, combs, and brushes before deciding to do a middle part and two ponytails. Starting with his hands, he divides her hair into two sections, then grabs the rattail comb to create a straight line. Before the comb even makes full contact with scalp, he hears:

“Ow.” Amara has already begun squirming in her spot.

Will freezes the comb. “...really?”

“It hurts.” The girl whines.

Will blinks. “I haven’t even touched you yet.”

“I’m serious!” The girl exclaims and begins to flap her arms in agitation.

“I know you are. That’s why it’s so funny.” Will continues to part the girl's hair while she groans and laments such indelicate treatment. As Will makes the first ponytail he softens his voice. “Your mom used to be tender headed too.”

Upon hearing the expletive, the girl goes on the defense “I’m not tender headed!” When the rest of the words catch up with her, she looks up at Will. “Really?”

“Keep your head forward please.” The girl turns back around and straightens from her earlier slouch. “Yes. She hated getting her hair done when she was little as much as you do now. But once she got older, and was able to do her own hair, she said it brought her power.”

“Power? How?”

“In celebrating our uniqueness, we find strength in who we are. While your mom thought her hair was a burden at first, she learned that it was one of the many things that made her who she was; just like your hair for you.”

“Well, I don’t hate my hair, just the pain.” The girl clarifies.

Will chuckles and begins packing up the hair arsenal. “Good. Now grab your backpack and we’ll head to the car.”

◐◒◖◑◓◗

Will watches the students file out of the classroom, some lingering with questions they’ll file away to email later and others to admire a mind they’ll never understand. Will closes his laptop and begins packing up his belongings for his lunch break.

“You're teaching on the Moore files, very interesting stuff.”

Surprised at the unwanted prospect of conversation, Will looks up to find a tall, broad-shouldered man with a smile that screams it wouldn’t be there if it weren’t obligatory. Even stuffed in his suit, the man stood like a sailor. He harbored a neat butch cut, soul patch, and a gap between his teeth. The gap reminded Will of his daughter’s. He chuckled. As amusing as the similarity was, such trademarks lent to the man’s identity, and he was nowhere close to a four-year-old girl. Will slips on his glasses.

“Jack Crawford. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The sailor’s smile widens at the verbal waltz cut short. “Actually, I’m working on a case and I’ve heard that you could be of service.”

Will huffs out a laugh. “I’m flattered.”

“Your reputation precedes you.” He taps his fingers along the edge of Will’s desk. “Our killer’s in Georgia.”

“Ah yes, the nine bodies in eight weeks.”

Jack nods his assent. “All creeds, classes, colors. There’s no pattern, other than where their bodies end up.”

“Mmm, there’s always more than that.” Will counters.

“Yeah there is, including another body. We weren’t the only ones to find it either. He’s being called the Paulding Predator courtesy of Lounds.”

Will tries not to roll his eyes at the mention of the name. “There’s plenty who do what I do, Jack. Carver from Hopkins, Bloom from Georgetown, even Smith from Harvard. Get one of them to do it.”

“None of them can do it the way you do, Will. We already have ten dead and this guy doesn’t seem to be stopping anytime soon. I need you on this case.”

Will thinks, hard. He thinks of the nightmares, birthed both from his mind and the earth. He thinks of the brief descriptions he read on the victims and their families. He thinks of how in another life, his daughter could be there, living peacefully with her parents in a state hundreds of miles away, and then not, taken by a stranger hungry to hurt, to spill a warmth meant to be kept inside. He waits till the silence turns into tinnitus, then exhales.

“Where to?”

“Dallas.”

He texts Amara’s after school care program to let them know he’ll be later than usual.

◖MOUNT TABOR PARK◗

Will steps out of the car and breathes in the fresh air, taking in the uneven dirt under his feet and gentle breeze tingling his skin. He follows Jack down one of the park’s hiking trails to a small clearing. In its center lie the supine husk of a woman, pillowed by fat curls of shrubs and sphagnum. From afar it looked as if she were sleeping, accidentally placed on earth rather than canvas, unintentionally made of flesh instead of pigment and linseed oil. The small scene looked like a work of Georges Seurat’s that everyone forgot was his. Will stops a couple feet from it… _her._ He surveys the surrounding area, taking in the location, tracks, displaced leaves, and arrangement of the body. He steps a little closer and sees a locket resting between her collar bones. He opens it with a gloved hand. A man smiles outward toward the camera, approximately the same age as the woman beneath Will. Young. Too young to have really done anything with their lives. Will’s eyes travel lower, finally gazing into the cavern ripped into her gut. He gathers himself, stands up from his crouch and slowly walks backward until he’s a couple feet away from the body again. Will breathes in as if bracing for impact, and then, finally, lets his lids begin to lower. Jack’s voice rises in his ears before the familiar static settles in.

“Everyone clear out. Take all the time you need Will.” There’s a crunch of rubber soles meeting frost-tipped grass and brittle leaf matter, then nothing.

Warm light bathes the edges of his vision. The pendulum swings.

 _He’s standing among a copse of spruce trees that frame a neglected trail. It’s the edge of evening, and most are tucked into their beds. But that doesn’t matter, because he’s patient. One will do. He hears a rhythm that can only be ascribed to the human gait and waits until the approaching soul is directly across from him. They are separated by tree trunks and needles alone. He walks alongside her, and the image is almost as if they are walking together, facing some unknown destiny. In a way, they were. Her more so. She reaches a field that has more similarities with a large patch of grass than a field and sits down. She looks up at the sky, reflecting._ (A distinct crinkling filters through the nothingness in Will’s head. Price and his damn Skittles.) _It’s probably about her relationship with her boyfriend. They had a fight, maybe more, and she storms out in the middle of the night. He approaches her low, not making a single sound._ (“ooh can I have a couple?”) _She’s just within arm's reach, and he can tell she feels a presence behind her. Before she can turn around, he pulls her up by the neck with a carotid hold and slices her open from navel to chest. She could’ve thought he was her boyfriend, hope warping to horror in seconds. The girl‘s in shock, breath coming out shallow but rapid, unable to do anything but groan and wail and-_ (”I only like the purple ones.” Jesus Christ.) _-groan and wail and…_ (The _purple_ ones, seriously? Will thinks. He shakes his head, trying to refocus.) _groan_ _and wail_ _and_ clutch _at her leaking stomach. He lets her body fall to the ground. The moment she’s dead, he starts his work._ _He presses the newly split borders open to reveal buried treasure. He steeps his hands inside, soaking in the rapidly-cooling warmth._ (“What the hell is wrong with you?” Will feels the corner of his lips quirk up at that, but he’s not completely sure from whom it came from or what it was for. He hears Jack reprimanding the techs about field conduct.) _Then he begins digging, looking for something valuable, something worthy. He reaches his hands up and onto the formerly restive muscle. Its silence now is beautiful, natural. Perfect. He rips the organ out, satisfied, and leaves the rest of the body to rot as time saw fit._

Profile: Male. Mid 20’s to 30’s. Greater than 5’11’’ and socially isolated. Violence is instinctual, he was most likely exposed to it from a young age. A disorganized killer with blitzed victims. Displays sadistic tendencies and believes himself to be superior to all those around him. 

There’s something more, though. The evidence collecting itself isn’t done telling its story. It begins constructing another narrative, birthing a new existence and string of possibilities.

Will doesn’t bother to open his eyes when he speaks, feeling Jack’s presence hovering close enough to be within earshot. 

“Someone saw the murder.”

Everyone around him goes silent, including Price and his bag of Skittles.

◐◒◖◑◓◗

Will lands back in Virginia and carpools with Jack to Quantico. After exchanging parting remarks with the team, Will slips into his Volvo to pick his daughter up from the care center adjoining the pre-school. He parks and enters the building to exchange his daughter for his signature. The two begin walking to the car hand in hand.

“How was school today?”

“Good. There was a competition to see who could make the tallest building out of pipe cleaners. Ms. Wallace gave us 10 pipe cleaners each, but Samantha and I decided to...” The girl stops moving, trailing off as her focus latches elsewhere. Will stops with her, turning his head to see what she sees. It’s a man, standing in front of the empty playground with his back turned toward them. Will notes his height, the protrusion of shoulder blades through the man’s leather jacket, and his smoked honeysuckle-colored hair. He begins guiding the girl forward again.

“Let’s go Amara.”

The girl is pulled from her daze and resumes the story of how she and Samantha built a pipe cleaner empire through teamwork. As they enter the car, Will considers tossing the cops a tip on a potential child predator. He could also be a baby daddy hoping to see, maybe even kidnap, his child. There were plenty of possibilities, but none of them were inherently pleasant with a grown man lurking outside of an establishment full of kids. He looks up at the rearview mirror to get another look at the man. He’s gone. Will turns around, then scans the periphery of the area to see the direction he’s headed. No one's there. As Will pulls out of the parking lot, his eyes still roam, trying to catch the mysterious man. When he reaches the road and merges with traffic, Will combs through his list of responsibilities, adding calling the school to alert them to stay vigilant over the next few weeks to the list.

◐◒◖◑◓◗

“Good night Amara.”

“One more story please?” Amara begs as she deceptively pokes out her lower lip.

"You've already listened to two stories and songs," Will says.

"But I'm not asleep! You have to tell me stories until I'm asleep or it doesn't count," Amara argues.

The two haggle until they compromise on three stories and songs for tomorrow night. Will lifts himself from the edge of the little girl’s bed and gently closes the door. He goes around the house checking all the doors and windows, verifying their security before collapsing into his own bed. The day held a number of surprises and mysteries, but Will’s exhausted, and the only thing on his mind is sleep.

Will is standing in a forest as night drapes the earth in her blanket. When Will tilts his head toward the sky, he sees a different moon. It’s the rufous of a split lip and dirt caked on the bottom of a shoe. Dull, and a little too close. He hears rustling in the underbrush and crouches down behind a tree. A dark-haired creature emerges, its coat matching the darkness surrounding it. There’s a round of soft crunches as hooves split twigs. It shakes its head, four antlers swaying with the movement. Three stark white rhombuses bejewel the animal's face, revealing themselves to be eyes when they blink. A stag. It breathes a puff of air from its nostrils and turns to walk deeper into the forest. Will follows. He’s not sure how much time passes, but eventually they reach a stream. Before Will steps up to the water, he sees the stag’s destination and pauses. The stag walks up to a man, placing its head underneath his palm. Will lifts his eyes to see the same shoulder blades and honey-soaked hair as before. As the man begins to turn around, screams pierce Will’s ears.

Those screams are real.

Will’s eyes open and he propels himself from his bed. Rapidly punching numbers into the hidden safe on the wall, Will grabs his gun and bursts into Amara’s room.

“Where is it?!”

“In the closet!”

Will keeps a steady hold of his gun as he approaches the door. He grabs the handle with one hand and throws the door open. With his gun pointed at an assortment of children’s clothes, he continues his search.

“How big was it sweetheart?”

“Small. It was only the size of a raccoon or something.”

The man sighs. “Maybe it got away.” He turns to tend to his child, walking toward the bed. “We’ve seen them disappear before.”

The girl begins to nod but stops at the movement’s peak, staring at the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars freckling her ceiling. “Yeah.”

Will watches his daughter, trying to examine her face for any signs of distress. Her eyes go wide and her shoulders clench.

“Daddy, above you!”

Will whips his gun around and up, shooting the mass of ashen hair until it falls to the floor. The thing lets out a hiss and then a frail squeak before it stops moving altogether. Will grabs the thing by the back of the neck. It’s covered in short, matted hair with four-fingered gray feet and a matching colored tail. Two black pebbles stand open on its face while its snout still bears three rows of pointed teeth. In its middle, two holes leak a rainbow-colored fluid, like oil resting atop water or splayed across concrete. Will walks out of the room, his daughter trailing behind him and clutching her metal bat. They walk to the back of the house where a single tin trash can lies. Will opens the lid and throws the creature inside, its carcass hitting the bottom with a wet thud. Before Will can close the makeshift casket, Amara places her hand on his.

“He was trying to eat my toes.” Will looks over at her, feeling the weight of her clouded expression. He nudges her shoulder with a soft smile.

“Wanna eat his toes instead?” The girl's eyes clear as she scrunches up her nose.

“Ew, dad, that’s disgusting.”

He laughs, “You never know, this rat could be a delicacy.”

The girl hums. “Is that what it is? A rat?”

There’s a pause as Will gathers his answer. “Some form of one, yeah. Though they were never this big in New Orleans.” He closes the lid and wipes his hands on his boxers. ”Let’s get back inside.”

The two re-enter the house, it feeling a little colder after the intrusion from an unwelcome guest.

Will looks over at Amara. “You wanna grab your stuff and bring it to my room?” 

The girl nods and heads to retrieve her things. Will grabs a rag and bucket from the broom closet and fills it with his late-night cleaner: dish soap, baking soda, alcohol, and water. He dips the rag into the solution and begins scrubbing away the drops of viscous liquid from the front door to the hallway. Amara exits her room with a water bottle, stuffed monkey, and steel bat—otherwise known as Oya—in hand.

“Are you sure you don’t need any help Daddy?”

Will smiles and leans back on his haunches. “I’m sure. Thank you Amara.”

She flashes her teeth before chirping a “You’re welcome,” and continues into Will's room.

Will follows the trail to the girl's bedroom and cleans the main pool of “blood” from her floor. “Thank God it's hardwood,” Will mumbles. A droplet splatters across the back of Will’s neck and he looks up, remembering the small mess on the ceiling. He sighs and grabs a ladder from the garage, climbing up it to clean the odd blots. Two stars are covered with the goo and Will peels them off to toss in the garbage. Luckily the bullets didn’t go through to the roof. Will did not feel like having to fix any holes over the weekend. Rinsing the towel and dumping the water outside, Will comes back to his bed to find Amara splayed in its center, chest vacillating with her breaths. He slowly climbs under the covers and curls up around her, bundling her in his arms. Will breathes in the scent of her temples and hair, lets the cocoa butter, jojoba oil, and honey soothe him. He closes his eyes, but only one of them can go back to sleep for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, wow, I really posted it! Thank you so much for reading, there's a lot more to come. Some things about this chapter: I am by no means an artist, but I did sketch the stag mentioned in this story if you want to have a look:  
> https://sya-b.tumblr.com/post/643100710426279936/quick-sketch-for-too-much-stuff-not-enough  
> Also, the name Oya is from an African Orisha/Goddess, you should look her up ;)


	2. Unknown Location

Will stares at the collage on Jack’s billboard. It’s a jumble of maps, newspaper clippings, string, and pushpins. His eyes float across the images of ten incipient ghosts, sticking to the photo with the number ten printed on the corner—The tenth victim. Her name was Quinn Hill. She was 19 and started attending her first year of college in August. Quinn had opportunities to go out of state, but decided to stay with her boyfriend; supposed high school sweethearts. She was a dancer too, won some state competition for it. She volunteered at the rescue shelter twice a week. She was really good with the dogs. At least that’s what her parents said.

“Someone _saw_ the murder?” Jack asks again for the umpteenth time.

“Yes,” Will says tiredly. “You saw the shoe prints at the crime scene. They were spread out, heavy. Whoever those belonged to, they were terrified and wanted to get out of there as fast as possible.”

“And you think they belong to Eric Carter, the boyfriend.” Jack eyes him with a critical look. Will just nods. “Well what happened to him?” Jacks asks. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Does the killer have him?”

“I don’t know,” Will repeats, sinking further into his chair.

“Then where are the killer’s shoe prints? Shouldn’t he have made some too? The ones present could be him leaving the scene.”

Will shakes his head. “No. They aren’t his. This killer is as graceful as he is savage. He would be light on his feet, purely for the sake of not scaring away his prey.”

Jack looks unimpressed. “I’m not getting a lot of answers here, Will.” 

“I know, I just, I’m a little confused is all.”

“About what?” 

Will remains silent, hesitant to release his thoughts. Jack leans forward in his seat and places his elbows on the table, enlacing his fingers together. “Talk to me. You got to give me something to work with.”

Will screws his eyes shut, placing a hand on each temple. “The footprints stop. This killer isn’t the type to deal with what’s unnecessary. A witness is a burden, but a hostage even more so. If the killer had him, we would’ve seen two bodies at the crime scene. But if Eric got away, why do the footprints stop? Why hasn’t he come out of hiding?” The room is caulked with silence and Will welcomes it with open arms. He resolves to speak his mind more often, if only to hear the magical product of a befuddled Jack. 

When Will finally walks out of Jack's office, he’s ambushed by blades of onyx hair and shark eyes. It’s the eyes he tries to avoid the most. They’re always piercing, trying to dive further into the pools of Will’s eyes, never satisfied with what he offers on the surface.

“You were right, Graham. The boyfriend’s been missing since Sunday. He followed her to make amends.” Beverly says and hands him a manila folder. Will grunts out a sound that’s somewhere between _thank you_ and _I told you so_ as he takes the folder from her hands, dutifully not making eye contact. He flips through what looks like a missing person report, class attendance records, and accounts from friends attesting to Eric’s absence. “You don’t like people much, do you?” she asks with a knowing smirk. Her eyes hunt for something to catch; a fish to lacerate with her 47 rows of primed teeth. “Can’t really blame you, not when you know what people are capable of. I wouldn’t call myself a fan either, to be honest, they talk too much.” Beverly gives him a quick once-over. “That’s why you’re not so bad, Graham. I think I’ve actually gotten more out of dead bodies than you.” Will laughs at that. She pauses, debating whether to continue. When she does, it’s a little softer than before. “You really think he’s out there?”

Will replays the scene in his head again. Quinn being pulled up by the neck and forced to spill herself open. Eric running for his life. The Paulding Predator smiling before carding through the girl’s insides. “From as far as I can tell?” Will says before lifting his chin to look her in the eye. “Yeah, I do.” Will raises the folder in thanks and stalks toward his classroom to teach kids about the nature of human depravity. 

◐◒◖◑◓◗

Professor Graham is hot, no doubt about it; the man’s probably crazy, but you can’t take that away from him. Tucker tried to read his monograph “On Insect Activity to Determine Blah-da-la-dee-dah-lah”, but it felt more like an actual assignment than the most viable way to stalk a love interest. They’re learning about the development of serial killers during childhood and adolescence this week. Prof. Graham is currently hammering in the idea that you don’t have to have a fucked up childhood to be a fucked up person. Apparently, they could easily be the coalescence of social isolation and suppurated fantasies. Add the lack of a productive outlet or presence to curb their desires and eventually the pining will swell and burst and you have yourself a killer. Graham says they often describe it as an “all-encompassing feeling that can’t be resisted.” Tucker agrees to disagree on that one. He types out a brief summary of the man's words before quietly doodling again. He considers writing their initials and enclosing them with a heart from his glitter pen collection (˚✧༚♡ **WG + TT** ♡˳✧༚), but then decides that’s a little too cringey, even for him. Tucker looks up to see Prof. Graham flip the projection screen to the next slide. His example is Joel Rifkin, a homely man who killed 17 women working as prostitutes from 1989-1993. He watches as Graham begins to describe the man’s profile.

Annnnddd wait for it…

Tucker watches as Professor Graham engages in metamorphosis. His back curves and his shoulders hunch forward as if compressed by some obscured weight. He’s now more slouch than standing. His movements are slow, lagging behind his words. When he walks, explaining his crimes, his steps are awkward and spasmodic. The man seems far more at ease looking at the dead bodies on the screen than being in the live one encasing him. His speech slips from the Professor’s typical distant and professional tone to something more conversational. The new man exudes all things slow and casual. Tucker bets he’d be the spitting image of a young, pre-prison Joel Rifkin. He sighs and continues doodling.

Yep, Professor Graham’s definitely crazy. Bummer.

◐◒◖◑◓◗

After teaching his classes, Will just wants to go home. Instead, he walks into Jack’s office to find a familiar expanse of hewn back and hair streaked with flint. How did a parking lot potential predator get into Jack’s office willingly? Thoroughly confused, Will slowly walks forward and lowers himself into the remaining chair in front of Jack’s desk. Will eyes the man next to him. He’s a wash of Aegean, sand, and marigold. The leather jacket he wore is replaced with a windowpane laced three-piece suit and a damask tie. His face is all angles and odd symmetry. He’s practically dripping in his own eminence. The man looks different like this. Will decides he likes the other version better. 

“Will, this is Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Dr. Lecter, this is Will Graham.” Jack says and looks at the two expectantly. Dr. Lecter turns in his seat and raises a hand for the standard American business greeting. Will reluctantly shakes his hand once, watering the introduction down to the least amount of contact possible. Approving of the cordiality, Jack continues his speech. “I’m adding Dr. Lecter as a consultant to the case. He’s been briefed on everything, including your theories, Will. Eric’s either with the Paulding Predator, or he escaped and is hiding somewhere. Either way, we need to get to him before the Predator does and we need all the help we can get.”

“I’m surprised you need my help at all, Jack, not with the prize you already have,” Hannibal says and looks to Will. “You must be quite intimate with your demons to pull off what you do.”

“Excuse me?” Will looks over at the man he’s officially meeting for the first time, appalled.

“What you have is pure empathy, you could slip in and out of my skin just as much as you could Jack’s. Does the closeness bother you, Will? No bulwarks to block out your associations, no hiding when they appear in your dreams.”

Will takes off his glasses to press the heels of his palms against his eyelids. “What is this? _What. Is. This.”_

“Will-” Jack tries to intercede.

“I’ve overstepped. Allow me to apologize; I can’t control who I am or what I see any more than you can. It’s a serrated gift, but one nonetheless.”

Will scowls at him.“Well your gifts must not leave much room for friends, do they?” Will stands. “I have to go pick up Amara.” He heads for the door.

Jack calls after him. “Will!”

Will doesn’t look back. 

◐◒◖◑◓◗

When Will asks Amara how her day was at school, she bursts into tears. He remains gentle, slowly coaxing the information out of her as to why she’s upset. Turns out some kids had been teasing her about her appearance and how different she looked from Will. 

Amara stutters out between sobs, “I just wanna look like you.”

Will bends down and places his hands along the curves of her face. “No, no, no. No you don’t. Amara, you are _beautiful_. And no matter what anyone says, you’ll always be my kid. You don’t have to look like me for us to be family. I love you, and I promise there's nothing that’s going to change that.” Will wipes the tears from her eyes. “ Plus, do you really want to look like this?” Will pulls a funny face. Amara laughs and they begin exchanging their most goofy faces, stretching skin, crossing eyeballs, and sticking out tongues. As the two enter the car Will thinks of a way to make Amara’s day a little brighter. “Hey, ladybug, how about we go to the park?” The girl lets loose a pleased squeal and begins singing a song about how much she loves the park and all the games she can play there. Will taps his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of the spontaneous live performance.

Will’s trunk is packed for days like these. He has everything from bubbles and kites, to big cloth frisbees and an assortment of sports balls. The park is one of the bigger ones in Virginia. It has a playground, three different fields, and a dog park. Will likes its grass the best. It’s authentic enough to roll down and get different shades of grass stains and itches afterward. The playground is nice too, with variable sets of primary-colored structures. It has wood chips instead of sand; Amara says the sand makes her dizzy. 

The playground is fairly empty, so the pair head there first. As their feet settle into the worn wood chips, they notice two vacant seats on the swing set. They both instinctively dash forward to claim their spots. The swings sell like hotcakes, and Will was not in the mood to have a staring competition with some kid’s mom who knew her son had been on the swings for over an hour. It was exhausting. She would look at him like: “Yeah that’s right. What’re you gonna do about it?” while Will tried to communicate that her child hadn’t heard the phrase “sharing is caring” enough, and was going to grow up to be the kind of person who cuts people off in traffic, talks during a movie, and doesn’t pick up after their dog because they’ve raised them to be a selfish bastard. 

It’s after that particular line of thought that Will notices a small boy around the age of six making intense eye contact with Will. His pudgy hands repeatedly grasp the air at his sides as he hovers near the swings. Judging from the look of righteous indignation on his face, Will would guess the boy was approaching the swings before he and Amara swooped in. Sorry kid, that's just the name of the game. Will doesn’t give up his seat. Immediately after Will makes the conscious choice to ignore the pitiful child, Will feels tiny daggers being violently stabbed into the back of his head. He turns around to see an elderly woman glaring at him. Grandparents are always a bit more sensitive. 

Only when Will feels an overwhelming amount of embarrassment at the obscene amount of creaking from the swing’s rusted chains does he decide to stop. The pair then head for the slides and slowly make their way up to the monkey bars. After the playground has lost its touch, they go back to the car to pick out their next activity. Amara chooses the soccer ball, so they go to the field to kick it back and forth. Amara gets bored and races past Will to kick the ball into the net behind him, all the while yelling “I beat you, Daddy!” Will accepts his defeat humbly, only for the sake of showing Amara good sportsmanship. As the two begin readying themselves to leave, Will notices Amara hovering at the edge of the dog park. When he walks up to her to direct her back toward the car, he sees a familiar figure ordained with chocolate hair and floral print behind the gate. He dithers over going up to her. Amara takes the opportunity to coo at the dogs. After a few minutes, the choice is revoked from him.

“Will!” The woman says as she approaches him.

Will considers trying to walk away and pretending he never heard her. “Alana, I didn’t know you came here.”

“It’s one of the best parks around, especially for this guy.” Alana leans forward and pats a shaggy head.

“Ahhhh!! Can I pet her please?!” Amara pleads.

Alana looks to Will and he nods. “Her name’s Applesauce,” she says as she bends down to match Amara’s height. “She likes it when you scratch behind her ears.” Alana watches Amara copy her movements before standing up again. “So. You. Back in the field.”

“Against our better judgment, yes,” Will says.

“I’m worried about you.”

“I know.”

“You can’t lose yourself. You have so much more at stake than what you had two years ago-”

“I _know_. I really do Alana. But I’m doing this for her. I’m not gonna lose myself, not if she’s around. I can’t.”

Alana looks at him for a while longer before letting it go. Will appreciates it and decides to steer the conversation elsewhere.

“Met a man named Hannibal Lecter today.”

“Did you?” Alana’s voice raises an octave as it curls with amusement.

“You’re not surprised.”

“I recommended him to Jack.”

Will watches Amara and Applesauce carefully circle each other, both thinking the other is more fragile. “He’s pretentious.”

Alana laughs. “Not a good first impression?”

He lets the acerbic words trickle out of his mouth. “No, not really.” 

The two adults talk for a bit while Amara continues to play with Applesauce. Will then decides they should head home for dinner and Amara cries at having to leave her new companion. Applesauce looks a little sad too. After Will and Alana make the promise of another playdate in the near future, both seem reasonably sated. After the father and daughter enter the car, Will lets Amara buckle herself up before double-checking that everything’s secure. As Will slides into the driver's seat and attaches his own seat belt, his phone buzzes. He looks at the text. It’s from Jack. 

_It'll be better if you two work together_.

Will rolls his eyes. Not a chance, not in a million years. Not until the stars combine and burst to form a whole new universe.

◐◒◖◑◓◗

Will’s world is crumbling beneath his fingertips. Everything around him is melting. He can feel his whole body ache and tremble with every step he takes. His hands and feet are clammy with layers of dried and rehydrated sweat. His vision splits as if his eyes were made of ommatidia. Amara is gone. He doesn’t know how or where to, but she’s missing. Will walks through the field behind his house again, the grass undulating around him. He checks inside the house, shed, and car. He calls her name along the edge of the forest. Will sits on the porch and decides to retrace his steps. Amara had a bad day at school so they decided to go to the park. They met Alana and Applesauce and then drove home. They both arrived safely. Will unbuckled Amara’s car seat and shut the door. She cautiously hopped out of the car. Will made his way to the door, unlocked it, and checked the house for any king-sized rodents. By the time he had finished his search to conclude that nothing was there, he realized Amara wasn’t either. 

Will tries to think. He lives on a farm and owns over five acres of field and forest combined. Since the landscape around his house is cropped, he would have noticed an outsider’s presence. So no one had taken her. That means Amara must have walked away on her own, and was probably lost. Will’s been calling her with no response, suggesting she was either tremendously deep in the woods or hurt. God, he hopes she’s not hurt. Will knows he needs to find her, but he also realizes he needs to be calm to do that. He pauses to collect himself; breathes in, out, and back again. He looks up at the car and the vacant car seat inside it. He examines the dry grass in the field and the conifers in the forest. He closes his eyes. The pendulum swings. 

...

...

_Nothing._

He sees _nothing._ Nothing that could have explained what happened to her or where she went. Nothing for his imagination to stitch together. It didn’t make sense. None of this made sense. 

Doubt rakes down his spine, questioning whether he could have ever been a good father. Panic calmly licks at his ankles, sending a flurry of gooseflesh up his calves. Will buries his head in his hands and fights the vomit welling up his throat. Salt stings Will’s lower eyelids. He has never felt more powerless in his life. It feels as if his skin has been ripped from his body, leaving his muscles to dry and wilt in the cold—exposed. He can’t do anything else. This was everything he had. This was all he was capable of. He needs help. Will picks up the phone and calls the only person he can think of.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Beverly, I need your help. Amara’s gone and I don’t, I can’t-I can’t _find_ her, but she was here and-“

“It’s gonna be okay. I’m coming right now.” Fabric rustles over the microphone. There’s silence before Beverly chuckles. “Looks like I’m losing this hand after all.” 

“You playin’ poker?”

“Yeah, with the guys.” She says. Right on cue, Will hears Price and Zeller yelling in the background, Jimmy in particular sounding like he trashed the AA Serenity Prayer and Twelve Step Recovery plan a few hours ago. “I mean what’s better than money, booze, and taking advantage of a couple of suckers?” There’s a pause. “I’ll be there soon Will. Just hold off until I’m there.”

Will still walks through the forest calling Amara’s name while he waits for Beverly. She pulls up a quarter till 18:00 and they split up to comb the woods for the missing girl. After they’ve covered their designated perimeters, the two meet back in front of the house to switch locations. Beverly and Will examine everything more carefully the second time around, trying to catch something the other missed. Over three hours pass before Will tells Beverly to go home. Both of their voices are rubbed raw and they can feel the tendons in their feet. He’ll have to call in a report tomorrow morning. Will goes inside the house to grab a thick blanket before sitting on the porch again. He can’t help but ferment in his failure. He can imagine anything, everything. But people don’t just _disappear_. They never really just disappear. Will lets his eyes fall shut and enters a light doze. His dream is a motley of Paulding victims, beating hearts, and not-quite rats. 

Will is awoken by the sound of a rumbling engine. Drowsy and distressed, Will half expects Beverly or a patrol vehicle. Instead, a souped-up black Bentley pulls behind his car in the driveway. It’s too dark to really see anything, and Will can only make out two figures exiting the vehicle. They’re holding hands, and one is significantly shorter than the other. When they step under the porch lights, Will is lost for words. He stands up and runs to the girl, enveloping her in his arms in what can only be called a bear hug. He bounces between fiercely whispering his love for the girl and chastising her for not staying with him. He asks where she went, why, and how she could possibly do this to him. He murmurs _I’m so glad you’re safe’s_ and _I missed you’s_ and _I was so scared’s._ He peers at the man above him with wet eyes and whispers “Thank you, Hannibal.” Will then stands up, carrying the girl with him and pressing her against his front. Will‘s in a daze when he asks Hannibal, “...how?” 

“Jack told me you had a daughter. I found her crying alongside the road, seems she wandered and got lost.” 

Will nods his head. “I can’t believe she got away that quickly. I feel so...I don’t know why she...why are you even here?”

”I actually came to see you.” Hannibal says and raises two unmarked paper bags in his grasp. “I come offering gifts: food and the forgotten.”

Will hums in acknowledgment before opening the front door around the bundle in his arms. Amara’s quietly dozing on his shoulder. She always gets sleepy after a good cry. When the group enters the house, Will points to the wooden table for Hannibal to place the food. Hannibal passes him and enters the kitchen. 

“I’m afraid I only brought fresh ingredients.” 

Will makes a small moue and sits down on one of the unused plywood stools aligning the countertop. “The forgotten?” Will asks.

Hannibal tilts his head toward the second paper bag on the counter. Will looks inside to find files from the case and—he laughs—something of ostensible importance. Evidently, when he fled Jack’s office in fit, he left his glasses. Will considers putting them on now but decides against it. There isn’t much use at this point. Hannibal asks for the location of the tools necessary before beginning the food’s preparation. Will watches as Hannibal chops a medley of vegetables. “What’re we having?” Will asks as he sorts through the ingredients laid on the countertop.

“Baked, herb-crusted chicken with Ditalini pasta in a mushroom, Gruyère, and sharp cheddar cream sauce and a side of lightly sautéed greens.”

Will was developing a Hannibal filter that extracted all verbal flair from the foreign man’s speech. Will’s current results suggested Hannibal was making fancy chicken nuggets, mac ‘n’ cheese, and a side of vegetables. They sit in silence for a while, Will lulled by the steady sounds of the knife on the cutting board and Amara’s gentle snoring.

“Would you like to help?” Hannibal offers, not looking up from his task. 

Will looks down at the drool on his shoulder and decides Amara should lay somewhere more comfortable. He stands from the stool and lowers her down on the couch, covering her in the thick blanket from around his shoulders. The girl is unperturbed by the movement and continues snoring. Will makes his way back to the kitchen, making sure he can still see Amara in spite of the distance. 

Hannibal directs him to wash his hands. He then shows Will how to batter and coat the chicken before placing it in a tray to bake. The two quietly set out to do their tasks, Will working on the chicken and Hannibal the mac and cheese. It feels too peaceful, too much like Will is actually enjoying the strange man’s company. Will decides he wants to break the tranquility, hear its bones crack. 

“I don’t particularly like you. In fact, I think you’re rather rude. What you did wasn't an inexorable instinct, it was calculation. You wanted to see me tick. Which, once again, makes you rude and frankly I’m not interested in you or your games.” The air shifts and Will feels better.

Hannibal lets out a small but bright laugh. “In all the time I’ve been alive I don’t believe anyone has ever called me rude. You are truly a singularity. Though, I wouldn’t say I wanted to see you tick per se, merely what you would do about my provocation. It is a shame you feel that way, Will, because I happen to find you quite interesting.”

This did not go as planned and Will is slightly bitter about it. Will just grunts and goes back to coating the chicken.

When the food is ready, Will wakes Amara up as Hannibal sets the table. By the time the three sit down to eat, the table is lavished with cloth napkins and quaint decor. Will wonders where Hannibal found the taper candles. Hannibal gracefully takes up his fork and knife and Amara instantly shouts “Wait!” Hannibal’s eyes widen ever so slightly. Will chimes in so Hannibal doesn’t interpret the interruption as a lack of social etiquette. 

“We pray over our meals,” Will says.

Amara bobs her head up and down. “Like I used to with my parents.” She says.

“Ah, I see,” Hannibal says before setting down his cutlery. He reaches his hands out toward the two and gently places one of their hands in each of his own. 

“Oh you don’t have to-“ Will starts.

“It really is no trouble,” Hannibal assures.

Hannibal bows his head, lightly closing his eyes. The remaining two look at each other before following his example. Amara says grace, thanking God for the food and for Hannibal finding her and bringing her home to her dad. Everyone then begins digging into their food.

“Tell me, Amara, how do you feel about God knowing he has taken your parents away from you? Do you think God can do bad things to good people, like your birth mother and father?” Hannibal asks conversationally.

Will gives him a warning look. 

“God’s not _evil,_ ” Amara says as she gives Hannibal an incredulous look. “Otherwise he wouldn’t have given me Daddy. If he wanted to hurt us, he wouldn’t have given us each other. Or you, Mr. Hannibal. He wouldn’t have brought us all together.”

Will sits stunned, deeply affected by the girl’s speech while Hannibal offers a smile. “What a wise little girl you are.” He says and readjusts his napkin. “And how’s the food?”

“It’s super yummy!! It’s the best food I’ve ever had!” Amara chirps.

Will doesn’t know if he should feel insulted by that.

“Will?” Hannibal looks to him.

Will continues chewing for a bit, choosing rebellion before giving a sedate nod. Just to annoy the older man, Will decides to talk with his mouth full. “It’s good.”

The three continue talking and Will is warmed by the conversation before remembering some details that needed to be ironed out tonight. Will thoroughly plans on giving Amara several talks on running away, not telling daddy where she’s going, and stranger danger, but there’s really only one question tugging at his skull right now. “Why did you leave sweetheart?”

The girl turns and looks up at him with lucid eyes. “I heard a voice.” She says and shovels the last bite of fancy mac in her mouth. “It was calling for help.”

◖UNKNOWN LOCATION◗

A dark and bitter black licorice wraps the night. There is no snow, but the chill present is hiemal and deadly. An iridescent shimmer cakes the Charleston green leaves while the dirt resembles a mixture of copper and cuprous oxide. The wind delivers thick currents of putrid air before settling back into something anosmic. The dull moon rules the sky, resting far closer than the timid sun ever could. It seems to linger forever. Forever. How long has he been here? He shivers at not knowing the answer. He’s lying in the hollow of a tree trunk. It’s been long enough that he knows he’ll die of dehydration if he doesn’t find water soon. Then he’ll die of starvation if he doesn’t get food sometime soon after that. But he’s seen things walk that shouldn’t be walking at all. He’s heard things produce sounds that make it seem like slowly shriveling up and dying is preferable to whatever’s out there. And he’s weak now, anyway. Every cell feels swollen and his mind disoriented. And then there’s Quinn. What was he supposed to do without her? She was dead, murdered, and he had seen it happen. He wasn’t sure what he saw, but he knew it belonged here, wherever here was. Quinn was dead. His girlfriend was dead, he was trapped, and was going to end up dead just like her. He was going to die. He screams: curses and pleas and for someone for the love of God to please help him. He screams for his mom and his dad and his brother and even his shitty teachers and friends. He screams for somebody, anybody to please help because he doesn’t want to die here alone. He starts to sob and huddles closer to the back of the tree for warmth. He doesn’t bother gathering kindling for a fire. He doesn’t bother trying to think of a way to find water or food. 

Eric knows better than to think he’ll make it out of here alive.


End file.
